


Incident After Zebulon

by Elfbert



Category: Rawhide (TV)
Genre: Cattle Drive, Cowboys, Favorowdy - Freeform, M/M, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 13:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11579094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: A little post-ep fic, set after Incident At Zebulon.Rowdy rejoins the drive, and quickly discovers what happened in Zebulon. He tries to help any way he can.





	Incident After Zebulon

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, just a little fic that seemed to need writing.

Rowdy Yates had seen the dust from the herd from miles away. There shouldn’t be much comforting about a huge cloud of choking dust - but to Rowdy it meant home, or as close a thing as he knew these days.

As he approached the men riding drag he pulled his bandana over his nose and mouth. He didn’t stop, just waved a greeting and headed up the side of the herd, watching the men working to keep the cattle moving and bunched. He waved a few more greetings, and as the dust lessened, he pulled the bandana off again, and used his hat to beat some of the dirt from his shirt and legs.

Finally he reached the chuck wagon, and pulled his canteen from his saddle.

“Hey Wish, got a full one?” He waved the bottle at the cook.

“Well ‘hello’ to you too,” Wishbone answered, snatching the near-empty bottle.

“Hello, Wish,” Rowdy smiled, and reached for the full canteen being held out to him, then noticing the bruises and cuts adorning Wishbone’s face. “Hey! What happened to you?”

Wishbone scowled. “Well, you wasn’t here, so someone had to look out for Mister Favor, an’ that someone were me,” he nodded resolutely.

“Mister…what happened?” Rowdy made his horse edge closer to the wagon so they could talk.

Wishbone scowled again. “Well, seems to me it ain’t my place to tell you another man’s business,” he answered.

“He here?” Rowdy asked, scanning the drovers out ahead of them.

“Oh yeah. I told him he didn’t oughtta be, but may as well talk to a rock, he’s so stubborn,” Wishbone grouched.

Rowdy nodded, knowing exactly what Wishbone meant, then spurred his horse on, riding toward the front of the drive, intent on finding out what had happened whilst he’d been away.

He found Gil Favor riding out in front of the herd. The pace was sedate - three thousand head of cattle didn’t go anywhere too fast when they didn’t want to. The Boss was allowing his horse to plod forward, and his gaze was fixed on the horizon. Rowdy allowed his horse to fall in beside Gil’s, and they walked on in silence. Rowdy twisted in his saddle to watch the herd for a moment, then turned back again.

Then it struck him - Gil hadn’t looked back once. Normally he would be riding up and down, twisting and turning in his saddle to keep an eye on beeves and drovers, check the lead steer wasn’t straying off the path. Even if he hadn’t been that bothered about the beeves he should’ve looked around as Rowdy approached.

“Got my beeves ‘bout a mile back,” Rowdy gestured. “In pretty good shape, prime beef. Old man Carter was pretty proud of them. Should get a good price.”

Gil glanced at him. “Let ‘em come up to the main herd easy. Don’t push ‘em.”

Rowdy nodded. “Sure. I’ll tell drag.” He rubbed his hand over his shirtfront. “Wish…er..Wish said some’n happened, back in town there.”

Gil didn’t answer. Rowdy hadn’t really expected him to. One thing he’d learned quickly when he joined the outfit was that Gil Favor said as much with his silences as he did with words. He learned to read them, mostly, but sometimes he just got frustrated.

“He…his face is pretty beat up. You okay?”

Gil stopped abruptly and wheeled his horse around, looking back at the herd strung out behind them, disappearing into the dust. Rowdy quickly did the same, and his leg jostled against Gil’s as his horse pranced slightly at the sudden manoeuvre.

“He di’n’t say nothin’?” Gil asked, tone not giving away any clue as to his thoughts.

“Nope. He said you’d tell me,” Rowdy answered, somewhat stretching the truth.

Gil span his horse again, and continued the steady progress along the trail, both hands resting on the horn of his saddle, reins held easy.

“Yeah, had a bit of trouble,” he finally answered. “We lost Johnny Larkin.”

“Lost?” Rowdy echoed.

“Got hisself hung. Murdered a girl.”

Rowdy huffed his surprise and shook his head. “An’ he did it?”

“Seems so,” Gil answered, emotionless.

Rowdy hoped for more, but the silence stretched.

“An’ Wish didn’t think he did? Got himself in a fight?” he pushed, trying to piece together the evidence.

“Oh no. Wish…Wish don’t know when to keep outta another man’s business, that’s all,” Gil shook his head, but didn’t sound in the least bit angry.

Rowdy sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to get the full story, then turned his horse away and rode back down the herd, checking in with each man in turn, seeing they were okay and warning them of the new cattle about to join the drive.

 

Quince nodded a greeting to him.

“Say, Quince,” Rowdy reigned in next to him. “The Boss okay?”

Quince shrugged. “‘F you ask him, sure he is.”

Rowdy inwardly sighed. Usually gossip ran through the camp like wildfire. But somehow the Boss was immune.

“So Johnny… he did it, right?”

Quince nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure reckon he did.”

“So how come Wish got all beat up over it? He think Johnny was innocent?”

That got a sideways look from Quince, and Rowdy realised his guess must have been way off.

“Wish got beat up tryin’ to help Mister Favor. Johnny were long dead by then. Mister Favor went t’get some justice of his own, and damn near got a rope ‘round his own neck for it, so Wish tells it.”

“Justice of his own?” Rowdy frowned. He’d known Gil Favor be accused of everything, from horse theft to murder - but he’d never gone out for revenge, as far as Rowdy knew. Just got it cleared up, and moved on.

Quince sighed, stopping his horse and pulling his makings from his pocket. “S’pose you’re gonna find out anyway. May as well tell ya. Was some sorta vigilantes runnin’ that town, wearin’ all hoods and gowns. Mister Favor din’t take to ‘em gonna hang Johnny like they did.” He pulled the drawstring on his tobacco bag closed with his teeth. “He stepped in, said they oughtta wait for the law. So they had him horse-whipped, dumped him back by the drive, with Johnny’s body.” Quince paused again to lick his cigarette paper. “He din’t take kind to that, went back to find their leader. Wish figured he’d need some help.”

“He…horse whipped? They…him?” Rowdy tried to form a full sentence, but he couldn’t believe anyone would do such a thing.

Quince nodded. “I ain’t never seen a man full of such a cold rage. Think Wish went to save him from hisself, much as anything.”

“Uh…yeah…” Rowdy nodded, then spurred his mount on to deliver his orders to the group of drovers pushing the beeves he’d picked up from a nearby rancher.

 

Eventually he fetched up next to the chuck wagon again, and fell into a walk beside Wishbone.

“He okay to be ridin’, then?” He asked.

Wishbone glanced at him. “Course he ain’t, should be down flat, two days - more.”

“So why’d you let him?” Rowdy asked, indignantly.

“An’ just how’d you suggest I stop him?” Wishbone replied, angrily.

“Aaah,” Rowdy growled in frustration, knowing Wishbone was right, and spurred his horse on, back to point.

 

As he approached Gil he slowed, unsure of what to say.

“So?” Gil called, without looking around.

Rowdy moved in closer to him, their horses falling into step. “So what?”

“You bin around everyone, someone will’ve told you. ”

Rowdy gave a small smile. “Wish says you shouldn’t be in the saddle.”

“Wish don’t have a herd to move.”

“We can move the herd with you in the wagon,” Rowdy countered.

“If’n you think it’d hurt any less to be bounced around in there, you ain’t got the brains you was born with,” Gil growled.

Rowdy shrugged, guessing Gil wasn’t wrong.

“So, you get what you went back to town for?” He asked.

Gil squinted into the distance. “In a manner of speakin’.”

“You killed the man who give you a whippin’?”

The Boss reined his horse in again, and turned to face the herd. “Nope.” He sighed. “Sheriff shot him.”

Rowdy nodded, a small part of him glad to hear that the man who’d do such a thing to Gil was dead. “You hurtin’ much?” He asked.

Gil huffed a small laugh. “Enough. Go tell Wish we’ll bed the beeves down on that flatland there, get the wagon up that slope by them trees, get the coffee on. Bring your lot on slow and easy, jus’ let ‘em mingle in.”

Rowdy nodded, and kicked his horse into a trot.

 

By the time he got back into the camp the fire was blazing, the coffee pot hot and Wishbone was shouting orders to Mushy as dinner was prepared.

A few of the men were milling around, some dragging out boxes and barrels to sit on, others rummaging in saddlebags or bedrolls.

Rowdy glanced around, but, as he’d expected, Gil was nowhere to be seen. He thought about riding out to find him, but decided against it. Jesus was already unsaddling his horse, and he didn’t want to bother him to put it back on.

The men were eating before Gil rode into camp.

Rowdy stood and sauntered toward the remuda as he saw Gil ride in, and was surprised to find him still in his saddle by the time he got there.

He waited a second, then approached. “Boss?”

Gil stiffened slightly in his saddle.

Rowdy grabbed the reins and looped them onto the rope.

“You, err…you okay?” He asked.

“How many times you gonna ask me that today?” Gil countered, but there was little venom in his tone.

“Guess maybe as many as it takes ’til I believe you?” Rowdy answered, uncertainly.

Gil huffed out a humourless laugh. Then, with little of his usual easy movement, swung himself from his saddle.

Rowdy almost missed the grunt of pain, but not the way Gil clung onto his horse for a second, before straightening up.

“Figure you should see Wish,” he said gently, shouldering his way past Gil and undoing his saddle for him.

“Figure I won’t be able to avoid him,” Gil answered, sounding tired.

As Rowdy had expected, Wishbone doled out a plate of stew, violently hitting the spoon on the tin plate, to show his displeasure at his advice being ignored all day. “Eat that. Drink the coffee. Then you an’ I and my doctorin’ bag gonna have a meetin’.”

Gil tipped his hat back on his head, gave a small nod, and slouched his shoulder against the chuck wagon to eat.

Rowdy smiled at Wishbone and touched his hat in salute. Wishbone nodded back resolutely.

 

He watched as Wishbone made Mushy set out a row of crates, then put out a couple of blankets on the top.

“Lie down,” Wishbone ordered Gil, as he dropped his plate into the washing up bowl.

Gil looked up, an expression of fake surprise on his face. “Funny,” he drawled. “Don’t remember signin’ the herd over t’you, but you sure seem right at home givin’ orders.”

“You’re only bossin’ this herd while you’re still alive, an’ I’m the one gonna keep you that way. If’n you go gettin’ a infection or fever, then you won’t be bossin’ no-one,” Wishbone jabbed a finger down at the makeshift bed. “Mushy, get my doctor bag.”

Gil slowly unbuckled his gunbelt, dropping it next to the boxes. Then let his coat slip down his arms. Finally he pulled his shirt free from his pants, unbuttoning it and undoing the cuffs.

Rowdy watched as he paused, shirt open, bandages now visible around his entire torso.

Wishbone stepped forward, and Rowdy could see he was worried, although doing well to cover it with a scowl.

“Come here,” he said, grabbing shirt and vest in one go and pulling them off Gil not entirely gently. “Now lie down, an’ stay still.”

 

Rowdy watched as Wishbone removed the bandages - some of which were blood-soaked - and Gil’s grip tightened on the edge of the box as he tried to pull them free.

“Now look, all your runnin’ about…I’m gonna have to soak these off,” Wishbone maintained his angry tone, but Rowdy saw the concern in his eyes. “Mushy, get some water - warm, not hot.”

Rowdy kicked a log slightly closer to where Gil lay, then sat on it. “So, tomorrow, we crossin’ the river?”

“Well we ain’t going ‘round it,” Gil answered.

Rowdy ignored the sarcasm. “Figure we’ll be there…’fore lunch, across for noon camp?”

“Figure we’ll be across well before noon camp.”

Rowdy shook his head. “Don’t make no sense - the beeves need waterin’, we should stop there anyhow, may as well make it noon camp.”

“Beeves’ll swallow plenty on the way across, they don’t need no noon camp.”

Rowdy watched as Wishbone carefully soaked the bandages, scooping the water on, trying not to spill too much down on the blankets.

“Now, see here,” Wishbone muttered as he began gently easing the bandages away. “All o’ this should be healin’, not lookin’ like you ripped it open fresh.”

Gil grunted. “Mebbe wouldn’t’a ripped it open if I hadn’t had to carry you up them damn stairs,” he growled.

Wishbone looked fit to burst, but managed to hold his tongue.

Rowdy tried to look away, as the bloodied stripes were exposed, a bit at a time, all down Gil’s back. It wasn’t the pain - he knew the Boss was plenty tough. But he couldn’t imagine being horsewhipped, not in front of a whole town. And then everyone in the camp finding out too - all the men who were supposed to respect Gil. Their boss, dumped like so much trash. He’d talked to Joe Scarlet, been told how they were brought back to the herd, along with a warning.

When Gil’s back was fully exposed, Wishbone wiped off the new blood, then splashed on a bit of alcohol, making every muscle in Gil’s body tense.

“Should stitch these by rights,” Wishbone grumbled. “Probably too late by now though.”

“’S fine, Wish,” Gil said, through clenched teeth. “Ain’t like a few scars’ll hurt anyone.”

Wishbone tutted, but finally allowed Gil to sit up, and wound wide strips of bandage back around his torso.

“Now this time, take it easy. I ain’t got time to be doing this every night.”

Gil gave a smile. “Sure thing, Wish.”

“Mushy, get Mister Favor a coffee, while I finish up.”

Rowdy noticed that the coffee was intercepted between the fire and Gil’s hand, and a hefty slug of whisky added. He also noticed that Gil wasn’t at all surprised, when he took a sip, even though the drink must have been half whisky by that point.

 

Rowdy settled on the crates next to Gil once Wishbone had finished his fussing and draped a blanket over Gil’s shoulders. “Would sure make me mad, someone doin’ that to me.”

Gil grunted, but Rowdy wasn’t sure it was in agreement.

“Not surprised you went back to town. I’d’a wanted to take that place apart.” Rowdy clenched his fist.

“Weren’t their fault. Easy to follow a strong man. Easy to believe someone promisin’ you some sorta paradise t’live in, just respectable folk, like you’re told you are. Bars on a jail look the same inside or out, an’ sometimes you don’t realise you ain’t on the side you thought you was, ’til someone points it out to you.”

Rowdy nodded slowly. “So…now he’s dead? What’ll they do?”

Gil shrugged. “Hopefully they can find their feet.”

Rowdy shook his head. “Don’t get how you’re always so calm about everythin’.”

“Man’s anger can be his own worst enemy,” Gil said, so quietly Rowdy barely heard.

“Sometimes you need a temper, to stand up to folk like that man,” Rowdy argued.

“Then you need the good sense not to let it rule you. No good standin’ up to others if you can’t rule your own head.”

Rowdy sighed.

“Help me on with my shirt,” Gil said.

Rowdy stood and shook the dust of the shirt first, before holding it up. He dragged it up over Gil’s arms, turning the collar back when he was done.

Gil re-buttoned it, then sat again. “Seen a lot of people ruled by their anger,” he said softly. “Din’t ever want to be one of ‘em.”

It always surprised Rowdy when Gil volunteered any information, and they were moments he cherished.

“Well, if it helps any, you ain’t,” Rowdy answered.

“Was the other day,” Gil mused. “Sure left here with an aim to killin’ him.”

“You di’n’t though.”

“Nope.” Gil pulled a cigarello out and lit it, taking a drag and letting the smoke trickle from his mouth slowly.

Rowdy played with the leg ties on his holster. He didn’t want the conversation to end, but the boss was like a skittish colt, sometimes. You could push a little, but too much and he’d break off, shout an order, make himself busy, and you’d lost the chance.

“Wish I’d been here,” Rowdy said. “I’d ha’…”

“Glad you wasn’t,” Gil interrupted.

Rowdy frowned. “Why? I’d’ve been more use ’n Wish, helpin’ you.”

“An’ if you’d got yourself shot up? Killed? ‘Cause I know you got a temper, an’ I don’t need ‘nother death on my conscience,” Gil said firmly.

“You can’t blame yourself for Johnny,” Rowdy protested.

“Oh, it ain’t Johnny - he got what was comin’ to him. It’s the others. Know how many I’ve buried? ‘Cause I don’t, no more. Just know when I stand over them graves I can say the words without readin’ The Book these days.”

Rowdy looked down. Another thing he didn’t want to experience being a trail boss. His orders leading to someone’s death. He’d seen how hard Gil took it, when he felt responsible.

“My Pa was angry, sometimes. But more often drunk,” Rowdy finally said. “Sure made me not want to be a drunk - folk laughin’ at him, takin’ advantage of him. Didn’t never make me want to stop bein’ angry though.”

Gil fixed him with a look. Then took in a long drag of smoke, blowing it out away from Rowdy.

“Never remember a time when my Pa weren’t angry,” he said, finally. “He were angry, drunk, mean.”

The smoke swirled around them, and Gil pushed a hand through his hair, one stubborn lock falling forward onto his forehead.

“An’ if Wish hadn’t stopped me…I don’t know if I’d’a killed him. But I sure woulda got a noose ‘round my neck. Same as my Pa. Left my girls alone, same as he did me.”

“You ain’t him,” Rowdy said, fiercely.

“I know,” Gil answered, softly.

Rowdy frowned, feeling like he’d somehow said the wrong thing, but didn’t answer back.

“Goin’ out to check the herd,” Gil announced, standing carefully, with none of his usual easy grace.

Rowdy jumped up and joined him, without asking, holding up his coat to help him into it.

He was glad when Jesus realised where they were heading and saddled Gil’s horse ready, without any comment.

 

They rode side by side, the cattle were mainly lying down and peaceful, the odd one was still on it’s feet, moving about, some of them quietly calling.

The sound of Quince singing carried on the clear night air, and Rowdy couldn’t help but smile.

Quince only knew a few songs, and one in particular was his staple. If you rode nighthawk with him it got in your head until there was no room for another thought, and you spent the next day cursing him for it.

“Seems quiet,” Rowdy said softly.

Gil nodded.

A coyote called out, but it was a few miles away, and neither of them commented on it.

They approached Quince, and stopped, which also stopped his singing.

“All okay?” Gil asked.

“Yes Boss, nothin’ doin’ here. Beeves is happy, weather set fair,” Quince nodded. He was sitting with his right leg up on the horn, reins held loose, cigarette in hand.

“Good,” Gil nodded, and pulled his horse around.

They walked around the whole herd, and Rowdy knew now that these night time checks weren’t just about the men, but about the health of the beeves, the terrain, the weather, and a time for Gil to just relax a little, in the peaceful night air.

 

When they were done they headed back to camp, handing the horses back to Jesus. Gil headed straight for the coffee pot, then took his bedroll from the wagon and rolled it out, kicking a few twigs and pebbles out of the way as he did so.

“You mind?” Rowdy asked, gesturing with his own bedroll to a spot very close by.

Gil shrugged. “Can’t say’s I’ll sleep too peaceful.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Rowdy gave a small smile. “I’ll get the saddles.”

Gil finished his coffee, threw the cup on the back of the chuck wagon and eased himself onto his bedroll. He slid his gun belt off, settling the holster by his head as he lay on his front.

Rowdy settled too, on his back, looking up at the stars. He found the North Star, just as Gil had taught him, and smiled, remembering the first time he’d ridden nighthawk with Gil, and they’d both climbed off their horses so he could follow Gil’s pointed finger to track the Big Dipper right to the North Star. The Boss had put his hand on Rowdy’s shoulder, standing right behind him, tracing the points of light and explaining the shapes. They’d laughed at some of the names - trying to figure out how people had ever drawn certain objects in the sky, but now Rowdy knew, wherever he was, he could always look for the North Star and know it’s the one Gil would be picking out each night, for the next day’s drive.

He looked across to the man. He could tell Gil wasn’t asleep. He didn’t suppose it was comfortable, having a back all flayed open. But there wasn’t much he could do, so he settled, tipped his hat over his face, and slept. He imagined he’d need to do more work than usual until Gil was healed up.

 

A noise woke him, and he looked up - it was still pitch black, just the glow from a few lanterns dotted around the camp showing up flickering shadows. The bed roll next to him was empty. He sighed - he knew Gil slept less than any other man - last to ride in, after checking the nighthawks, often up to ensure the men changed over shifts, frequently up with Wishbone in the morning, seeing everything was all right, riding out to check the trail.

He sat up, then scrubbed his hand over his face. He saw movement by the chuck wagon and stood, walking as quietly as he could through the camp of snoring men. The shifts had switched over - Quince was asleep, next to Scarlett, as always.

Rowdy cleared his throat quietly, so as not to startle Gil.

“Err, you okay, Boss?” he asked.

Gil looked up, cup lifted halfway to his lips. “Sure.”

Rowdy took in the bottle in front of him, and nodded. “Medicinal?” he smiled.

Gil shrugged. “Thought it’d help me sleep.”

He just nodded. Gil never drank in camp, and it was just another measure of how much he must be hurting.

“Comin’ back, then?” he asked, and didn’t wait for an answer, walking back over to their bedrolls.

A moment later Gil lay down next to him, chin resting on his forearm.

Rowdy glanced around - no one else was awake, so he reached out and squeezed Gil’s bicep, rubbing his hand up and down a few times, in a way he hoped was reassuring.

Gil flicked a glance at him, and gave a small smile.

Rowdy smiled back, removed his hand, and settled again.

 

The morning brought life back to the camp, the clanging of pots and pans, men and horses waking and moving about.

Rowdy yawned and scrubbed his face before sitting up. Gil was already gone, his horse missing from the remuda.

He walked over to the chuck wagon. “Boss been gone long?” He asked Wishbone.

“I’m makin’ breakfast, not runnin’ a roll call of who’s in camp and who ain’t,” Wishbone snapped.

Rowdy frowned and headed for the remuda, saddling Fox and riding out to the herd, looking around. Eventually he spotted a lone figure, up on one of the nearby rises.

He expected to find Gil sitting easy, one leg hitched up on his saddle, probably smoking. Instead Gil was sitting up straight, looking uncomfortable, huddled into his heavy coat. His legs were wet, and Rowdy guessed he’d been up very early and scouted the river for them.

“Back botherin’ you?” Rowdy asked softly.

Gil didn’t look around. “I’m okay.”

“Ain’t what I asked,” Rowdy muttered.

Gil turned to face him. “Yeah, then. That help you any?”

Rowdy frowned. “No, no…just…you know, you can tell me. I can help, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Gil said softly.

“So, once you had breakfast we’ll push on to the river,” Rowdy nodded.

“Don’t need breakfast, get ‘em movin’ soon as you can. River’s risin’. Should have been over last night.”

“Well you’re tellin’ Wish if you ain’t eatin’. He made your favourite, and I like life too much.” Rowdy pulled Fox around and headed back to camp.

Gil followed him, and carefully dismounted, trying not to strain his back any more than he had to. Every time he stretched the skin it would feel like being whipped all over again, but he hated to look like he was suffering in front of the crew. He needed them to keep working as usual, so they needed him to do the same.

He walked stiffly to the chuck wagon and picked up a cup.

“Here, let me get that,” Wishbone grabbed the cup from him, managing to sound grumpy about offering to help. He also dished out a plate of scrambled eggs with some bacon mixed in and a fried bean patty. “There. An’ I expect you t’eat it all, or you won’t never heal,” Wishbone scowled.

Gil nodded and leant his shoulder up on the chuck wagon, balancing his coffee on the water barrel.

Rowdy, as ever, appeared nearby, also sipping coffee and shovelling breakfast into his mouth.

Gil hadn’t even finished eating before he took a few steps out into the camp. “Need to push on this mornin’, get across the river soon as we can. Been rainin’ up country, so it’s risin’. Push on, get ‘em over, it’s boggy on the far bank, so be ready to rope ‘em out if any of them flounder. Try an’ push em a little downstream as they cross, ground’s better there, bit more rock. Once we’re over goin’s easy for a while, so let ‘em spread a bit. Keep an eye on the new beeves, make sure there ain’t no trouble.”

Everyone set about their work, whilst Gil finished eating. He handed his plate back to Wishbone when he was done.

“Wish, once we’re over, get on ahead an’ set up noon camp, get a coupla fires goin’, everyone’ll be wet and cold with this wind. Don’t want no one gettin’ sick.”

Wishbone nodded. “Sure thing, Mister Favor.”

“An’ Wish,” Gil caught his arm. “Thanks.”

Wishbone gave a small smile. “Well, I know it’s your favourite.”

He shook his head. “Not this - though I ‘ppreciate it. For what you did back there, in town. Plenty wouldn’t’ve.”

Wishbone shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Boss. Not a man in this camp didn’t want to go an’ stand with you.”

“Yeah, well, thanks anyway,” Gil said softly. “You were right. I was jus’ smartin’, real bad.”

Wishbone gave a nod and a smile. “Come see me tonight, I got some ointment for that back of yours, help it heal.”

Gil nodded, recognising Wishbone’s offer as acceptance of the thanks.

 

The river at Whitewater was high, but not so bad they couldn’t cross. Rowdy frowned as they reached it, turning to Gil.

“Maybe you should go ahead, Boss, before the herd.”

“They’ll need pushin’ - specially your new lot,” Gil answered.

“You should…well,” Rowdy scrunched his face up. “Don’t get caught up in it, that’s all.”

“When I need tellin’ how to push cattle off a whelp like you, I’ll be sure an’ let you know,” Gil snapped.

Rowdy sighed and pulled Fox around to go back to the herd and tell the drovers to string out the beeves.

The drovers had shed all unnecessary clothing, despite the chill wind. Coats, chaps, vests were all put in the supply wagon in the hope they’d make it across dry.

 

Quince lassoed the lead steer and dragged it across, and many of the rest followed without too much protest - Joe and Toothless pushed back any which tried to turn away from the water.

Rowdy rode back and forth, trying to regulate the flow of cattle, ordering the drovers to push on or just let the beeves trickle through, to avoid there being a backlog in the river.

He frowned as he spotted Gil waist-deep in water, lassoing beeves who had become mired in the soft mud on the other side.

“Joe - let ‘em in steady, don’t let ‘em bunch on the other side, right? I’m gonna help the Boss,” he called.

Joe waved an acknowledgement, and turned back to his work. Rowdy kicked Fox on, plunging into the river, and hanging on as the horse picked a way through the rocks beneath the churning water. It was cold, and the wind didn’t help, but he knew Wishbone and Mushy would be building up the fires to dry wet clothing once they were over.

He roped out a steer, pulling it back into the water, away from the mud, and setting it loose again once it was back with the main body of cattle as they slipped and struggled up the rocks.

Gil rode back into the river, pushing the beeves away from the mud, water flying up as his horse twisted and turned, blocking the path of any steers trying to head his way.

Rowdy pulled another two free, then joined in to prevent more getting stuck.

Finally they could see the drag riders following the last of the herd down the opposite bank, and Gil called out to Rowdy.

“Ride on, tell ‘em to slow up at the front once these last are over. An’ make sure Wish is ready. Need good fires an’ coffee.”

Rowdy didn’t want to leave, but nodded anyway, spurring Fox on to complete his task as fast as possible and get back to help.

Wishbone already had two fires lit, and the coffee pot hanging over one of them.

“Nearly over, Wish,” Rowdy called.

Wishbone nodded. “I’m ready for ‘em.”

He rode on and had Quince slow the point right down, turning them back on themselves and letting the cattle mill about, grazing.

Then he headed back to the river, just in time to see the last beeves being pushed across, Joe and Toothless helping to push the most reluctant of the beeves into and through the churning water.

Gil looked soaking wet, along with the other drovers who’d been working in the water. He was hitting the last of the beeves with his lariat, driving them onward, shouting and whooping as they finally plunged into the water, fighting their way across.

 

Gil’s horse slipped a little on the rocks, and Rowdy could see the grimace on the Boss’s face as he clung on, his mount managing to regain it’s footing and finally get back onto decent ground.

“Everythin’ okay up front?” Gil asked, as he arrived next to Rowdy, water streaming from his boots and stirrups.

“Yeah, Jim’s got it all steady. Wish’s got fires lit up.”

Gil nodded. “Everyone done well, not a single head lost. Even your lot, and they ain’t trail broke.”

Rowdy nodded. “You’re soaked. Why don’t you get to Wish, I’ll see drag in.”

Gil nodded his thanks and rode up the side of the herd, checking the beeves and drovers as he went.

Some of the men were already changing clothes - if they had any spares - or sitting by the fires, trying to encourage theirs to dry.

Gil handed his horse off to Jesus, then approached the chuck wagon, rubbing his cold hands together.

“Here,” Wishbone held his coat up, to help him put it on. “Get by that fire. Mushy, get Mister Favor coffee.”

Gil sat by the fire, stretching his legs out, watching as the wet material began to steam gently. He plucked it away from his skin, then gratefully accepted the hot coffee from Mushy and lit a cigarello.

 

Eventually Rowdy also arrived back, and stood next to him, sipping coffee.

“Where d’you figure we’ll get to tonight?” Rowdy asked.

Gil shrugged. “I’d be happy with ‘nother five miles.”

Rowdy nodded. Glad that they wouldn’t be pushing the pace, hoping everyone could get a bit of rest.

 

That evening they bedded down on higher ground - Gil had said it was going to rain, and the valley floor could be prone to flooding. It made Wishbone even grumpier than usual, having no flat land to park the wagons on.

By the next morning it was raining - a steady, unrelenting rain that served to make every task a little more unpleasant.

Rowdy rode out a little with Gil whilst everyone else was finishing breakfast and preparing for the day ahead. The rain ran off his hat and down his back, and they hadn’t even been out an hour before everything felt soaked through, cold and miserable, even with their slickers on. The sort of weather he’d dream of, when it was baking hot and they hadn’t enough water to last out the day. The sort of weather he hated right here, right now, when everyone was wet and cold with no end to being wet and cold in sight.

As they started the day proper, pushing the beeves on, Gil rode up to him.

“Want to scout ahead some. ‘Specially with this weather. Figure the goin’s easy for now. Can leave Quince an’ Joe in charge, you can come with me. Should be back tomorrow, dependin’.”

Rowdy nodded. Few things made him happier than getting to go off with Gil on his own. Just getting away from the drovers and the beeves for a while.

“Tell Wish, ‘fore he finishes packin’ the wagon. Get some vittles, the bedrolls, an’ a canteen,” Gil ordered.

“Sure thing,” Rowdy grinned and pushed Fox into a canter.

 

Wishbone got the things together, with his usual slightly grumpy demeanour.

“Here,” he handed Rowdy a pot. “For the Boss’s back. You be sure an’ use it. It’ll sting some, but it’ll do him good.”

Rowdy nodded and shoved the jar in his saddlebag.

“An’ Rowdy,” Wishbone looked around, ensuring they were alone. “He ain’t slept more’n a few hours a night, since this. You be sure an’ stay out tonight, get him to talk some, stop it eatin’ at him. Get him t’sleep. That’ll do him more good ’n any doctorin’.”

Rowdy nodded slowly. Somehow, under his ornery exterior, Wishbone always seemed to know how people were feeling, and what was going unsaid in the outfit.

“Sure thing, Wish,” he agreed.

 

By the time Rowdy was back at point, everything tied on to his saddle, Gil was just riding up the far side of the herd, having words with a few of the men, and stopping to have a longer talk with Quince before arriving back at Rowdy’s side. Rowdy reached to attach the bedroll to Gil’s saddle, adjusting his slicker to keep the worst of the wet off it.

“‘C’mon then,” Gil said, kicking his horse into a canter and not turning to see if Rowdy followed.

 

They mainly rode with their heads down, trying to keep the rain from stinging their eyes and running down inside their slickers. Rowdy knew Gil would be noticing everything about the trail, though, without even seeming to try. So he attempted to, as well.

“Need to string ‘em out here,” Gil finally said, breaking the long silence. “They’ll tear ‘emselves to bits in that brush.”

Rowdy nodded.

“Be good goin’ though, if this rain stops. Otherwise might get boggy.”

Rowdy nodded again, still looking at the brush, wondering if he’d ever get the sort of sixth sense Gil had about the weather, the ground, the terrain.

“When d’you push your first drive?” He asked, out of the blue.

Gil looked at him. “Drovin’ or bossin’?”

Rowdy shrugged, just wanting to talk, instead of waste their time alone. “Both, I guess?”

They rode on for a few moments, and Rowdy wondered if the silences were Gil deciding what to tell him. Editing down the truth, selecting the pieces Rowdy was allowed to hear.

“Worked for a ranch, when I was fourteen or so. We’d push beeves to markets, to other towns, dips, wherever they had t’go. Went to New Orleans a coupla times.”

“Tough work,” Rowdy observed.

Gil shrugged. “You gotta prove yourself, same as anywhere. Least now we get a chuck wagon, cook. Some of these whelps now don’t know how easy they got it.”

“You had to take your own food?” Rowdy asked - he’d heard tell of conditions like that, but he’d never been sure what to believe - he’d only ever been on drives with a cook.

“Sure you did. Weren’t no one else to. You got used to spottin’ what you could get - rabbits, birds, water - if you didn’t you weren’t gonna last long. Jerky and biscuits gets mighty borin’, after a time.”

Rowdy nodded. He supposed if his survival rested not only on pushing the beeves, but also spotting anything he could eat, maybe he would be a bit more observant.

“An’ bossin’?” He asked, feeling like he had nothing to lose. The rain was still falling steadily, and their pace was unhurried, making it easy to talk.

“Can’t wait to step into my boots?” Gil smiled.

Rowdy shook his head. “I ain’t ready.”

Gil laughed. “Ain’t no one ever ready.”

“You weren’t?”

Gil shook his head. “Was on the Goodnight-Lovin’. Was on my second run out as ramrod. Boss jus’ got a fever. One day he were in the saddle, next he was in the ground. So I di’n’t have a choice. Had to push on.”

It was Rowdy’s worst nightmare. He knew what they did was dangerous - and Gil certainly didn’t shy away from a fight. He might do everything he could to stop it happening, but once it was on, he was always in the middle of it. Rowdy had seen him step in front of guns and knives, fight for himself or for others, get in front of a stampede or try to hunt down a panther. And any wrong move, any error, would mean Rowdy got a promotion he wasn’t sure he wanted.

“You like him? The Boss?” Rowdy asked.

Gil shrugged. “Good man. Good Boss. Drovers respected him.”

“Must’ve been hard.”

“Men understood. An’…well, by the end of the drive, showed me I could do it. Showed the owners, too. Got back an’ there was people willin’ to give me a herd. Drovers willin’ to ride with me.”

Rowdy shook his head. “How’d you…know what to do? All the…business?”

“I’d watched. I’d asked questions. Mister Donovan weren’t no genius, neither were some others I’d worked for. Figured I’d work my way ‘round it. You just got to keep your temper - when some jasper’s offerin’ you ten dollar a head, an’ you spent months pushin’ them beeves, you gotta talk ‘em up, try not to punch ‘em, no matter how much you want to.”

“You never punched a buyer?” Rowdy grinned.

Gil gave a half smile, looking through the drips and pouring rain at Rowdy. “I said I tried not to. I might’ve failed, few times.”

Rowdy laughed. Sometimes he wished Gil showed he was human a little more - showed he made mistakes. But he knew why he didn’t. He knew he didn’t want the other drovers questioning his orders.

 

After a while they stopped under some trees, and Gil scribbled some notes in his trail log with the stub of a pencil that he kept in his pocket.

“Gonna keep goin’?” Rowdy asked, peering out into the rain.

Gil shrugged. “Figure we should get a few more miles, then turn back. Try and find someplace half dry to sleep.”

 

There wasn’t much shelter, but they picked a spot near some large boulders, where trees overhung and the ground was a little drier.

Rowdy jumped off Fox quickly and gently moved Gil away from his horse before he began unsaddling it.

“I’ll do that,” he said softly. “Wish’ll kill me if you keep hurtin’ that back.”

“An’ I’ll kill Wish if he don’t stop fussin’,” Gil replied. But he busied himself making up a fire instead, leaving Rowdy to heave the saddles onto the floor and give the horses a quick rub-down.

 

The dirt was still damp, and plenty of rain was making it through the trees, so as the fire grew Gil found some stronger branches and dug them into the dirt, making the bare bones of a shelter as well as somewhere to hang their slickers.

“Just gonna walk ‘em down the river,” Rowdy said, gesturing at the horses. “Let ‘em have a drink.”

Gil nodded, continuing to set up their camp, pulling a small coffee pot from a saddlebag , throwing in the grounds and water, and setting it on the fire.

 

Rowdy smiled when he got back - one of the bed roll tarps was stretched over the sticks, forming a makeshift tent, their bedding safely underneath it.

“Coffee won’t be too long,” Gil said, poking the fire slightly. “Wood’s a bit wet.”

Rowdy nodded, tied up the horses and shrugged out of his own slicker, grimacing at its wet grip.

“Think it’ll stop?” He asked, glancing up at the clouds.

“Should blow through. Might get colder though.” Gil leant up against a rock, undoing his gunbelt, then removing his chaps.

“Hey, Wish give me this, for your back,” Rowdy held up a jar and peering at the off-white contents.

“Did he,” Gil grunted.

“How’s it feelin’?”

Gil shrugged, poking at the fire again, then sat on the bedding, under the edge of their shelter.

“You can tell me, right?” Rowdy said, hanging up his own slicker. “I ain’t gonna judge.”

Gil sighed, pulling off his hat and shaking it out, before replacing it, tipped back on his head.

“Ain’t the…sure, it hurts enough. It’s…I don’t mind a fair fight. And that weren’t one. That’s…” he shook his head.

“That’s what’s eatin’ you?” Rowdy sat next to him, instinctively nudging shoulders and knees, spots of warmth in the cold.

Gil sighed again. “Yeah, guess it is. Guess it was when I went back to town. Hurtin’ was just fuellin’ it.”

“Weren’t nothin’ you could do, though. You were tryin’ to do the right thing by Johnny. You couldn’t know they’d…do that.”

“No, but…Wish tried to talk me outta it, when we were back there. Told me straight, it were my pride that was hurtin’. I still went an’…I don’t want you - or Wish, or Pete - to ever write that letter to my girls. ‘Specially for somethin’ so…pointless as a bit of hurt pride.”

“And we don’t ever want to write it, neither.” Rowdy began unbuckling his chaps, not wanting to think about it. “Wish give me some biscuits, ham, jerky, dry apple. River’s good water, can fill the canteens in the mornin’.”

He stood, hung out his chaps by the fire and poured a little out of the coffee pot, tasting it and nodding to himself as he poured one for Gil and topped up his own cup.

“Thanks,” Gil took the mug and gulped some down.

Rowdy rooted about in his bag for the food Wish had provided, and they ate in silence, watching the rain sheeting across the land, some bits seemingly so heavy you could swim through the air.

“Let me see ‘bout this stuff Wish gave me, then,” Rowdy said, once they’d finished.

Gil didn’t protest, unbuttoning his shirt and grimacing as he removed it. Then he picked at the knot in the bandages, but gave up trying to unwind the damp fabric as the cuts across his shoulders pulled and strained.

Rowdy moved in to help, being careful, as he’d seen Wishbone do the night before, and easing the bandages away from the wounds.

“Right,” he opened the jar and sniffed it, pulling a face at the smell. “He said it might sting some, an’ I wasn’t to take no notice of your belly-achin’.”

Gil nodded, wrapping his arms around his knees, waiting.

Rowdy dipped his fingers into the greasy substance and reached out.

Gil jumped at the first touch, and Rowdy hesitated for a second, then carried on. He pulled a face at the depth of some of the wounds, and the surrounding bruising, which was now all shades of purple and green.

He glanced up to see Gil’s fists clenched, and guessed Wishbone had been right about it stinging.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Ain’t got much more t’do.”

Gil gave a curt nod, and Rowdy sped up in his work, finally putting the lid back on the jar. “There,” he glanced around and picked up one of the blankets. “Jus’ have this on, ’til it dries off a bit,” he said, wrapping the blanket around Gil’s shoulders. Then he refilled their coffee mugs and sat back down.

“Girls want to come out again,” Gil said. “Want to meet you.”

Rowdy gave a small smile. “How come?”

“I write ‘em ‘bout you, the others. They know Pete an’ Wish an’ the rest. Want to meet you.”

Rowdy traced his finger over some chipped enamel on his cup. “What d’you say ‘bout me?”

Gil gave a small shrug. “Tell ‘em some of what we do, things we come up against. Tell ‘em how good a ramrod you are.”

“You do?”

“Tell ‘em what a good friend you are, too.”

Rowdy smiled. They butted heads often enough on the drive, and compliments from Gil were hard to come by. But when he got them he knew they were meant, sincerely.

“I’d like to meet ‘em too. An’ maybe Miss Bradley, too. Must be a mighty fine woman, to bring up two little versions of you,” he smiled.

Gil shook his head. “Oh, Gillian…well, she takes more after her Ma, studies hard, got them fine city manners. Maggie’s the one…well, I sure hope she keeps her spirit. She ain’t as good on her books as Gillian, but she’s sure got the fire in her to get where she wants anyhow.”

Rowdy couldn’t help but smile. He knew how proud Gil was of his girls, and rightly so.

“Right,” Rowdy picked up the bundle of bandages he’d removed. “Better get these back on you, else Wish’ll think I weren’t takin’ care of you proper.”

Once the bandages were back on Rowdy cleared their little camp up a bit, checking the slickers were as out of the rain as they could be, and throwing a few more sticks on the fire in the hope that if the rain did die off, as Gil assured him it would, that some of their gear would be a little drier in the morning.

He lay down next to Gil, looking up at the shelter, which was doing a good job of keeping their blankets dry.

“You okay?” he asked, as Gil shifted again, obviously struggling to get comfortable.

“Yeah,” Gil answered, moving once more, closing his eyes briefly as something pulled.

“Come here,” Rowdy gestured to his own chest.

Gil scooted over, throwing one arm over Rowdy’s waist, lying half on his front, half plastered against his ramrod. He hooked one leg over Rowdy’s, too, then settled. Rowdy pulled the blankets over them both - the night was cold, and he certainly appreciated Gil’s warmth, as well as the easy intimacy of their position.

Rowdy stroked his hand over Gil’s neck, too scared to touch his back. With the other hand he interlocked their fingers over his belly.

“Sleep,” he said. “You sure need it.”

Gil smiled, closed his eyes, and slept through until dawn.


End file.
